The doors swung open. A herald announced Marcus Fulvius Macrianus, Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, Praefectus Annonae, holder of maius imperium in the Oriens. The titles rang out sonorous and impressive: the treasurer of the whole empire, its supply-master, with overriding military authority in its eastern territories.
Click, drag, step. Macrianus advanced down the aisle. Click went his walking stick, his lame foot dragged, and his sound one took a step. He was followed by two more youthful versions of himself. His sons had the same long, straight nose, receding chin and pouchy eyes, but Quietus and Macrianus the Younger walked easily, with a confident swagger.
Behind the family came three more men. All had deserted the setting sun of Valerian in time to rise high in the newly emerging regime. There was the elderly nobilis Pomponius Bassus, recently appointed governor of Cappadocia, the senator Maeonius Astyanax, as ever clutching a papyrus roll as evidence of his intellectuality, and, most sinister of all, Censorinus, commander of the frumentarii. Emperors came and went, but there was always a feared Princeps Peregrinorum like Censorinus in charge of the imperial secret service.
On the dais, Macrianus handed his stick to one of his sons. He pulled a fold of his toga over his head and poured a libation of wine. Raising his hands to the heavens, he said a prayer to the immortal gods of Rome. His tone was imbued with the fervour of true belief. This was a man who had caused untold suffering to his fellow citizens with his persecution of Christians. Few could be more dangerous, more inhumane than an active and shrewd politician guided by burning religious certainty.
Once everyone was settled in their seats, Macrianus the Lame indicated that the embassy should begin.
Garshasp spoke briefly. Avoiding Greek, the diplomatic language of the east, he used his native tongue. Having captured Valerian in battle, Shapur, King of Kings, would now accept a ransom for him. Cledonius and Ballista had been brought here to arrange it. Knowing Persian, Ballista noted that the interpreter filled out the phrases to make them less brusque.
Cledonius took the floor. Having served for many years as ab Admissionibus to Valerian, he was well versed in courtly etiquette. His speech was full and round in its Latin orotundity. He moved seamlessly between high-flown sentiments and hard details.
The words slid off Ballista’s mind like rain off a tiled roof. No one expected this embassy to succeed; not Shapur or Valerian, and none of the men in this room. Macrianus the Lame had exercised great ingenuity and foresight in order to betray Valerian to the Persians. The very last thing he would want was the return of the aged emperor. Instead, as Quietus had told Ballista in a moment of fury, Macrianus intended that his sons take the purple. Cledonius’s speech ran on. As the historian Tacitus had revealed long ago, the rule of the emperors had created a gulf between words and reality.
Suddenly, with a flourish, Cledonius produced a document from his toga. He began to read. It was a letter from Valerian to his loyal servant Macrianus. It was a direct order to the Count of the Sacred Largess to leave Samosata and come to the emperor in Carrhae.
In the silence that followed Cledonius’s rhetorical device, Macrianus rose to his feet. He came to the edge of the dais and leant on his stick.
‘Is anyone so insane that he would willingly become a slave and prisoner of war instead of being a free man?’ Macrianus shook his head, as if overcome by the folly of it all. ‘Furthermore, those who are ordering me to go from here are not my masters. One of them, Shapur, is an enemy. The other, Valerian, is not master of himself, and thus can in no way be our master.’
It was in the open. Macrianus had publicly denied that Valerian was emperor any longer. Although Ballista knew the devious Count of the Sacred Largess had been working towards this for at least a year, he still felt vaguely shocked. The northerner looked around to see how everyone else was taking it. Up on the dais, all heads except one nodded in solemn agreement. Quietus was smiling in exultation. Again, through the main body of the basilica, there seemed much muted approval. Ballista noted that the audience contained a significant percentage of those high-ranked senators who had followed Valerian to the east.
Macrianus pointed to Garshasp. ‘You will return to your master tomorrow morning.’
When the translator had finished, the Sassanid warrior turned and, without a word, left the room.
Macrianus gestured with his walking stick. Its silver head of Alexander the Great flashed. ‘Cledonius and Ballista, you will remain here to serve the Res Publica.’
Cledonius spoke up clearly. ‘I will not.’ His thin face was a mask. ‘I am bound by the sacramentum I took to Valerian Augustus and by a specific oath to return to Shapur.’
‘And you, Ballista?’ Macrianus betrayed no emotion.
‘The same.’
The lame man leant on his stick, thinking. ‘The sacramentum is a personal oath to an emperor,’ he said at length. ‘When a man ceases to be emperor – he dies or is taken prisoner – the oath ceases. Any oath you made to Shapur was under duress and so is invalid. The gods of Rome would want you to remain and give your service to the imperium.’
‘Sophistry,’ said Cledonius. ‘No emperor has ever been held captive by barbarians before. Who is to say Valerian is no longer emperor? In any event, there was no duress when I gave my oath to Shapur. I will return.’
Macrianus pointed at Ballista.
Temptation caressed Ballista. One word. Just one word, and he was safe with his family. Back with Julia. Back with his sons; looking into their huge blue eyes, burying his face in their long hair, inhaling the smell of them.
No – Ballista tried to push temptation away. It clung like a whore on a Massilia dockside. Think of Julia, Isangrim, Dernhelm. No – there would be no safety. The very opposite. One word would bring down the terrible curse in the oath he had sworn to Shapur. If it were just on his own head, he could take it. But not on his sons’. If I break my oath, spill my brains on the ground as this wine spills, my brains and the brains of my sons too.
‘I return with Cledonius to the emperor.’
‘So be it.’ Macrianus’s face was impossible to read. He tapped his stick for quiet, declared the consilium over, intoned another heartfelt prayer and made his way out. Click, drag, step. His supporters jostled as they were forced to keep to his slow pace. Click, drag, step.
Outside, Maeonius Astyanax was waiting. ‘Ballista, a word,’ he said.
The senator led Ballista round the basilica to a south-facing garden which abutted on to the palace. The path was flanked by statues of Greek intellectuals, arranged alphabetically: A was Aristotle, B, Bion. They stopped by Homer.
‘Your wife and sons are well in Antioch.’
‘Thank you.’ Ballista felt a hollowness in his chest.
Astyanax fiddled with the book roll in his hands and looked up at the marble bust of Homer. He was going to say more.
Ballista waited. He had spoken to Astyanax a few times. But, beyond the senator’s fervent support for Macrianus the Lame, Ballista knew little about him. Julia had once said that rumours linking the two men all involved disgusting impropriety.
Ballista realized he had never really looked at Astyanax before. He was a middle-aged man, with short hair and a short, full beard. His lips were soft and fleshy; his forehead intensely wrinkled. Astyanax twisted the papyrus between his fingers. The man was nervous.
Astyanax looked away from the marble face of the blind poet. His gaze traversed the wall of the palace, as if seeking something to distract him in the diamond-pattern limestone blocks.
At last, glancing at Ballista, then looking away, he began to talk. ‘Macrianus genuinely believes he has the mandate of the gods to restore the Res Publica.’
‘I do not doubt it.’ Ballista’s voice was neutral.
‘The Christians have to die. Their open denial of the gods, their disgusting atheism, turns the immortals against the imperium.’
‘Quite possibly.’
Astyanax turned and looked Ballista in the eye. ‘Vale
rian had to go. He was old, weak, irresolute. The gods demand a strong hand at the helm.’
Ballista said nothing.
‘In this age of iron and rust, we must have an emperor.’ There was a wheedling quality to the senator’s voice.
‘We have one: Gallienus. And a Caesar in his son Saloninus,’ Ballista replied.
Astyanax shook his head. ‘They are far away on the northern frontier.’
‘One of them could travel east.’
Astyanax’s fleshy lips twitched. ‘They are beset by your barbarian cousins.’
Ballista ignored the gibe. ‘Gallienus has a brother and another son in Rome. One of them could assume the purple.’
‘Gallienus is a degenerate. There is no reason to think his close relatives any better.’
‘Certainly Gallienus likes to drink and he likes to fuck.’ Ballista nodded at the papyrus in the other’s hands. ‘He writes poetry and listens to philosophers too. But I have campaigned with him. He knows how to fight.’
Astyanax dismissed the argument with a wave of his hand. ‘Macrianus has all the virtues necessary in a princeps. He has self-control, piety, courage, intelligence, far-sightedness.’
‘And a crippled leg.’ Ballista spoke more harshly than he had intended. ‘No man can ascend the throne of the Caesars with a physical deformity.’
‘True.’ Astyanax smiled. ‘That is why Quietus and Macrianus the Younger must take the throne. The sons will be guided by their father.’ The treason voiced, Astyanax hurried on. ‘The majority of the senate will be with us. They hate Gallienus – his lack of dignitas, the way he excludes them from military commands, panders to the common soldiers, promotes illiterate barbarians.’
Ballista was silent for a moment. There was more than some truth in it. ‘A senatorial majority does not win a civil war, armies do,’ he remarked.
‘Quite so. Those who matter in the east – those who hold the armed provinces – are already with us. While you were away, the governor of Cappadocia met an unfortunate end. Exiguus was killed by bandits.’ Astyanax raised his eyebrows. ‘Latrones everywhere – dangerous times. Cappadocia is now held for Macrianus by Pomponius Bassus.’
When Ballista did not react, Astyanax carried on. ‘Strangely, when he heard the news, Valens, the governor of Syria Coele, fled to the west. He has been replaced by Piso Frugi, another close amicus of the Count of the Sacred Largess. Achaeus, governor of Palestine, is with us. A devout persecutor of Christians, he is aware what the times call for. The prefect of Egypt, Aemilianus, is an ambitious man, and the governor of Syria Phoenice, Cornicula, a weak one. They both realize where their advantage lies. Doubtless, the isolated governors of Osrhoene and Arabia will fall into line.’
Astyanax spread his hands wide in a studied oratorical gesture. ‘Then there is Sampsigeramus, the king of Emesa. Seven years ago, in the time of troubles, he put a myriad horsemen in the field. The god he serves has told him to pledge his support. As I said, we command all the armed might of the east.’
Ballista laughed. ‘Then why do you need me?’
‘We are not sure we do. Yet you might be useful. Much of Valerian’s field army was drawn from the west. You have served there. They might like a general they know.’ Astyanax sighed. ‘And, corrupted by Gallienus, they might prefer a general of your origins.’ There was a wealth of contempt in the last word.
‘Then it is unfortunate for you that I am oath-bound to return to Shapur.’
Astyanax turned a bland face to the northerner. ‘Macrianus dealt with that in the consilium. Anyway, you do not have a reputation for being over-pious. Under you, the persecution of Christians in Ephesus ground to a halt. Your wife’s family are Epicureans. Like them, you may think the gods are uninterested in humanity.’
At the mention of Julia, the hollowness in Ballista returned.
Now Astyanax looked pained, his forehead even more wrinkled. ‘After Valerian was captured, you were declared a hostis, an outlaw to be killed on sight. That order has not yet been rescinded.’ He paused. Ballista feared where this was going.
Astyanax resumed, in short, measured sentences. ‘Your family is in Antioch, the capital of the province of Syria Coele. The new governor is on his way there from Zeugma. Piso Frugi is a zealous supporter of Macrianus. Some might say overzealous. The wife and children of a hostis, a traitor to the Res Publica, a traitor to Macrianus – things might not go well for them.’
Ballista could not speak.
Astyanax patted his arm. ‘Never take a hasty decision. Sleep on it.’
Dawn came up over the stirring city of Samosata. As every day at this time, the beams were removed and the Edessa gate was swung open. Since the capture of Valerian, the guards had exercised great vigilance. When they were satisfied there were no Sassanids lurking, they waved the telones to carry on. The customs official stood back as Ballista and Cledonius led the horses through the gate.
Outside, the two men moved off the road to wait for Garshasp. Ballista did not want to talk. He studied the motley throng of refugees. Day by day, more arrived from south of the river. Ballista wondered how many of them were Persian infiltrators. It was an obvious move. Certainly, Shapur would have thought of it. Yet the telones seemed to be doing nothing but searching them for taxable goods. Perhaps it had not occurred to Macrianus.
Ballista could sense Cledonius’s growing impatience to talk. The northerner turned his back and looked at the defences of Samosata. On the other side of the ditch, the wall was tall and thick. Although its facade was a diamond pattern of small blocks, it was smooth enough. But here and there were buttresses. Were they ornamental or did they indicate structural weakness? Either way, they were a bad thing, providing a modicum of cover for attackers. And the town wall was long. It would take an enormous number of men to defend it. Up on its hill, the citadel might be daunting, but the town itself would be difficult to hold.
The horse Ballista was holding tossed its head. He soothed it, bringing his face close to its nostrils, letting it inhale his breath. The automatic gestures did not break Ballista’s line of thought. Did Macrianus even intend to try and hold the town? What were the lame one’s plans?
Astyanax had outlined the plot in the most favourable light. Yet in some ways it was what he had not said that was most important. Astyanax had not mentioned any western governors as supporters. Presumably, there were none. And he had not talked of the governors of the so-called unarmed provinces of the east. While they commanded no legions, there were small detached troops of soldiers in every province. As well as these stationarii, there would be some whole units of auxiliary cavalry and infantry. It seemed that the governors of Asia, Lycia-Pamphylia, Cilicia and the other unarmed eastern provinces had not fallen in behind Macrianus either.
Astyanax had admitted that Virius Lupus, with his one legion in Arabia, and Aurelius Dasius, with the remnants of two in Osrhoene, had yet to commit. His ambiguity concerning the allegiance of Cornicula in Syria Phoenice and Aemilianus in Egypt was also telling. Two more eastern legions not yet secured.
Yet most important of all was what Astyanax had not said about the client rulers. He had made much of the adherence of Sampsigeramus of Emesa but had said nothing about Odenathus, the Lord of Palmyra. In the time of troubles, Odenathus had raised thirty thousand warriors, horse and foot. Ballista had commanded Palmyrenes: Cohors XX Palmyrenorum at Arete and Equites Tertii Catafractarii Palmirenorum at Circesium. They were fine fighters, deadly with a bow, fearsome hand to hand. The oasis city of Palmyra, Tadmor to its inhabitants, lay between Rome and Persia. Now its lord, Odenathus, the Lion of the Sun, held the balance in the east.
Garshasp, his devotions complete, the risen sun worshipped, walked out of Samosata. He shook Ballista’s hand. Ballista passed him the reins and gave him a leg-up. The Persian waited.
Cledonius embraced Ballista.
‘Are you sure?’ There was no accusation in the voice of the ab Admissionibus.
‘Yes.’ Ballista made as if to
say more.
‘There is no need to explain,’ said Cledonius. ‘My wife is dead, my son with Gallienus.’
Ballista nodded. He helped Cledonius into the saddle. ‘We are playthings of the gods,’ said the ab Admissionibus. ‘They give us harsh choices.’
The two mounted men turned and rode slowly away towards the bridge south. Ballista watched them go.
The words of his oath tormented Ballista: If I break my oath, spill my brains on the ground as this wine spills, my brains and the brains of my sons too.
Julia put the papyrus roll down on the desk with the others. She pinched the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb. It was hot, even in the shaded part of the atrium. She had chosen this house for their family dwelling in Antioch because the Epiphania district caught whatever breeze there was. This morning, there was none.
She tapped the stylus against her teeth. The deeds of the property just outside Daphne were straightforward enough, but the other was more complicated. Ever since the charcoal burner had died, intestate, two of his relatives had disputed ownership. If Julia wanted the property, there seemed nothing for it but to pay off both. She was not sure why she was so determined to buy it. Certainly you could build a wonderful summer retreat there, high on the southern slopes of Mount Silpius, magnificent views but tucked away, almost impossible to find. Had she not been brought up in a household of the strictest Epicurean philosophy – the gods are far away and have no interest in humanity – she might have thought a deity had put the idea in her mind. Four years earlier, Ballista had narrowly survived an attempt on his life there. Possibly she wanted to buy it as a sort of offering for the return of her absent husband. If so, her philosophical rationality was slipping. Her late father, the stern senator Gaius Julius Volcatius Gallicanus, would not have approved.
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